Year 2014

Written as I consider the ramifications of technological change for myself and my community; inspired by these sad scenes that I observed on a visit to our nation's capital: absence of lively conversations, lack of common courtesy, and inability to avert one's gaze from his/her smartphone.

=========================================

Year 2014

The bus was late. Grey skies were muddier than usual. The wind harshly brushed past her cheeks as she shivered. Her hands were artificially hot from holding the battery-powered electronic. Noting a familiar warmth, she bowed down to look at it. She had vowed to not touch it until she got home. She sank deeper into the ears of her coat as she attempted to avert her gaze from an older couple who were conversing happily about religion and politics. They smiled at her. She looked down to her left hand, pretending to check the time.

The pale screen beckoned, ever lifeless. The strangers about her had already given up, their gazes helplessly fixed upon the sterile crystal display that lay in their hands. It kept their fingers busy; spying on other strangers' lives, strangers whom they believed to be their friends.

Nonchalantly silencing her conscience, she expertly glided over the screen with her index finger.

minipax.

Purposing to be productive, she rolled her finger over the news icon. Brief headlines from the Washington Post caught her eye, some political and others fantastic, but all carrying a weight of importance and deserving of attention: “Oceania still at war with Eurasia,” “Unemployment drops to 10% in the suburbs,” “Crime rates on the rise in the city,” and “Ex-veteran rescues stray dogs from a sinkhole.” After skimming over the headlines and first paragraphs of each article, she skipped to another national newspaper, New York Times. The headlines seemed just as important, if not more exciting than that of the Washington Post: “Eurasia at peace negotiations with Oceania,” “Weekly unemployment insurance claims rise,” and “Inner city enjoys peace.” She tarried over some stories about the usual celebrity gossip, read a couple mildly philanthropic articles and got out of the app.

A few years back, it had seemed to her ludicrous indeed, that for a moment she would believe some of these events to be noteworthy of national news. Now, it seemed uncharitable of her not to linger a bit over these words about children who had perished in a housefire and less socially savvy not to know which actress had whose baby in Hollywood. And surely, the socioeconomic stuff—that is important, right?

minitrue.

The bus stopped. If it hadn't been for the older couple who was contentedly—and oddly--enjoying each other's company, she and the others might have missed it altogether. They got on, one by one, with each one's gaze still fixed on his or her respective screens.

It was a long ride home. She took a seat and read some news articles discussing correlation between breastfeeding and IQ scores. Although she worked in the corporate world, she had studied developmental psychology in college with a focus in early childhood. She preferred to read articles two-to-three pages long rather than to keep up with the quarterly journals she had enjoyed back in the day. Once upon a time she would have dismissed some of these as pop-psychology reinforcing existing assumptions and opinions, but she had grown accustomed to assuring herself that she was being informed by reading these.

miniplenty.

Having accomplished her daily duty as a responsible citizen, she moved on to indulge her appetite for shopping. A world of possibilities opened up in the palm of her hands. Relaxed, she delightedly browsed web-sites of national fashion retailers for what seemed ten minutes to her. A handicapped mother with a toddler mounted the bus at the next stop, but she barely noticed as to yield her seats to them.

miniluv.

The bus was nearing home now. She had saved the best of the entertainment for last part of the trip. Still oblivious to the weary legs that got on and off the bus, she tuned in her social media. After pressing on the “like” button on some college classmates' comments mentioning the win of a certain candidate for governor, she chuckled as she looked at pictures of a lady's babies, whom she had met at her local health club. 'She looks mighty good for having had children, and her husband is not half-bad,' she thought, feeling a subtle wave of jealousy. Before the thoughts of her own single barrenness could depress she quickly moved onto her own profile, where she could readily locate affirmations of others and attain to a fleeting high of ego. Self-promotion was considered shameless ten years ago; Now, it was celebrated.

She continued to browse and continued to alternate between self-pity and self-admiration. She was even feeling like a good friend to those whom she had not emailed--let alone spoken a word to--in ten years. It was then something... or someone struck her.

“Are you OK, Miss?”

It was the bus driver.

She had fallen asleep and had rode on miles past her intended destination. The bus was at the last stop; the driver had gotten off to refuel and had returned to wake her up. She tried to speak, but no intelligent words came out, as she was still half-wandering the world of slumber.

“Wh-wh-wh...”

“These kids nowadays,” the driver shook his head and got off again, headed towards the coffee machine outside.

Then again, she was left alone.

The heater was still running but she felt cold. The old Orwellian vision receded as another emerged. Oceania held its citizens captive, not with the old, crude methods of hyper-centralized governing body, yet not vastly unlike it. The imprisonment had began first with the mind. It had seized control of their hearts and poisoned them one against another. There was a beautiful facade of a reality that citizens of Oceania preferred over the clumsy, real thing.

And they had forgotten...

That cost of peace is not cheap;

That quest for truth is demanding;

That plenty is not to be taken for granted;

and that love is hard work.

Back to Room 101.

i

Phone

i
i
Phone

Phone

i
i
i


 Goodthink.